


taking care

by superstringtheory



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Caretaking, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fever, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Jughead Jones Needs a Hug, Sick Character, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-21 20:20:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15565668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superstringtheory/pseuds/superstringtheory
Summary: College AU. Jughead pushes himself too hard. Betty's there to pick up the pieces.





	taking care

It’s July but feels like August. Midwestern and muggy-- less soupy than the Deep South, but certainly not what Betty had pictured when she’d decided to spend the summer on campus. She’s used to a little mountain breeze and a mild summer- and while the winter had been bone-chilling, it’s now swung so far the other way that she never wants to leave her air-conditioned apartment. 

 

Except for Jughead. For him, she’ll peel her thighs off the leather couch and throw her hair up into a ponytail, shove some extra blotting papers into her purse, and run out the door, no matter the humidity. 

 

It’s the summer of their junior year, and Jughead’s been killing himself over a condensed course, on top of researching for a professor and studying for the LSAT. They’ve spent as much time together as possible, sure, but Betty’s not sure she’s seen him outside of a library more than twice in the past week. 

 

Just now, he’s cancelled on their date night with a Snapchat of library stacks, “ _ too much work tonight. I’m so sorry, Betts _ ” captioned over the top. 

 

**Jughead Jones:** _ Sorry again _ , a text message appears moments later.  _ My head’s killing me and I need to finish another practice test today or I’ll be behind schedule. I miss you.  _

 

Betty touches her phone screen, biting her lip as ellipses appear. 

 

**Jughead Jones:** _ I’ll make it up to you later. Promise.  _

 

*** 

 

Betty was always into Nancy Drew, devouring the mystery books by the handful as a tween. There was something charming and wholesome about them, and she liked escaping into that kind of fantasy world where Nancy always knew what to do and the bad guy always got caught. 

 

She’s not sure there’s a bad guy here per se, beyond the metaphorical “man” making Jughead think he has to shove everything possible into this summer or he’ll never be successful, but Betty thinks she can put some Nancy Drew skills to work anyway. 

 

She recognizes the library stacks from Jughead’s Snapchat as those of Riverdale Library, the largest (and nicest) library on campus, and she’s pretty certain of Jughead’s typical study spots there. 

 

That Jughead has a headache doesn’t surprise her-- he’s been going all out for weeks-- but the fact that he told her does. She’s proud of the fact that she and Jughead are honest with each other and discuss problems or issues openly-- but that doesn’t change that for as long as she’s known him, Jughead’s had a problem with letting her see him when he’s not 100%. 

 

Beneath the tattoos and leather, studs and Doc Martens, Betty knows that there’s a boy desperate to be taken care of, coddled and cuddled. He’s just so damned stubborn. 

 

Well, this time, Betty’s going to head it off, strongarm him into some caretaking, and spend some quality facetime with her sweetie, regardless of whether that face is fever-flushed and snotty. 

 

*** 

 

Jughead’s usual study table is on the fourth floor-- quiet study-- and tucked into a back corner behind the peninsular Spanish literature call numbers. 

 

She espies him from down a stack, and god, he looks  _ miserable _ , even from a distance. As she watches, he sets down his pencil to cough chestily into his elbow. 

 

When Jughead doesn’t pick the pencil back up, instead staring down at his study book with a glazed expression, chin propped on his hand, Betty decides it’s time. She adjusts her ponytail’s perkiness and marches over, swooping down to press a kiss to Jughead’s cheek, then flouncing into the chair next to him. 

 

Jughead looks stunned, and sniffles as he turns to stare at her. Betty grins. 

 

“You’re busted, mister,” she whispers. “Sick as a dog, and not home in bed.” 

 

Jughead wipes his nose on his sleeve and says, “Quiet section,” in a voice that’s endearingly annoyed and scratchy. He stares Betty down for a prolonged moment, then his resolve collapses and he scoots over to lay his head on her shoulder. 

 

Betty winds her arm around his waist and gives him a squeeze. 

 

“What do you say we get you home and feeling better, huh?” 

 

Jughead leaves his head on her shoulder for another second, then straightens and shakes his head. 

 

“No. I’m behind schedule.” He clears his throat, then stubbornly pulls his LSAT Logic Games book closer to him and picks up his pencil like he’s going to start doing problems again. 

 

Betty sighs. “Jug. C’mon. It’s almost the end of the week. You deserve a rest.” 

 

“Resting isn’t on the schedule,” Jughead mutters throatily, and coughs into his fist for too long before sighing. “Ugh. Okay. Fine. The light in here hurts my eyes anyway.” 

 

*** 

 

Betty helps Jughead gather up his things and put them back in his shoulder bag before taking his hand and tugging him through the stacks to the elevator. She jabs at the “down” button and then pulls Jughead in for a quick kiss, frowning when she’s reminded just how peaked he looks. In the elevator, Betty fits her palm to Jughead’s forehead and tsks audibly. 

 

“You’re running a fever, Jug.” 

 

He shrugs noncommittally with one shoulder, as if moving both would be too much effort. “Eh,” he says, and coughs. 

 

Betty hugs him to her side, pressing another kiss to his jawline. “Grumpy, sick, and monosyllabic. I’ve got a winner.” 

 

Jughead narrows his eyes at her a little, then a tiny smile forms on his lips. “Whatever,” he says. “I guess you could make me soup or something. My roommates are out of town.” 

 

Privately, Betty cheers. It’s not that she minds Jughead’s roommates exactly… it’s that they can be a little hard to relax around. One of them is always wanting to play darts or go out for a drive and Betty’s not sure any of them have ever met a pair of headphones. Still, she loves spending time with Jughead in his room, even if she has to listen to death metal through the walls sometimes. They always remember what kind of cereal she likes and keep it stocked in the kitchen. One of them, Toni, is a tattoo artist at a parlor near campus, and for Christmas she inked a delicate flower on Betty’s forearm. 

 

So Jughead’s roommates are far from bad, but Betty’s certainly glad that they’ll be away while she’s trying to get Jughead to rest and recuperate. 

 

“Good,” she says decisively. “Veronica just got back from  _ abroad _ ”-- here she puts the same affected emphasis on the word that Veronica does without meaning to-- “and I don’t really want to have to listen to her and Archie getting…   _ reacquainted _ .” 

 

Jughead winces, and nods his head vehemently. Betty knows that he secretly doesn’t love her apartment anyway- her roommate, Veronica, owns an entire floor of the Pembrooke luxury apartment building only a few blocks away from the main campus. It’s astronomically expensive and not somewhere Betty could ever dream of living but for Veronica’s kindness. They’d bonded at freshmen orientation over drippy ice cream sandwiches on the quad and have been inseparable ever since. After her mandatory year of on-campus housing, Veronica’s father had bought the apartment for her and Veronica agreed to live there on one condition-- that Betty be allowed to stay rent-free. 

 

All in all, it’s a pretty sweet deal, and Betty does love her palatial room and her own bathroom and the full, marble-topped kitchen-- but it is a little much. Well, it’s a lot much for an undergrad, but she loves Veronica. She can see why Jughead doesn’t love it there, though- it’s the kind of place where you always have to use a coaster and you always feel like you have to clean up before the maid comes (yes, there’s a maid). At Jughead’s more typical college house, they can relax and just be, without worrying about anything. 

 

Betty feels at home with Jughead just about anywhere, and she can picture them together in a little house with a white picket fence or a trailer or a tiny home. They do just fine in the over the top apartment, too-- but there’s something a little better about the Southside- something more homey. 

 

That’s not going to stop her from using her privilege, though. 

 

*** 

 

At the entrance to the library, Betty parks Jughead on a bench while she works on her phone, fingers flying in a text to Veronica. 

 

**Betty Cooper:** _ can I use the car service? We’re at the library and Jughead’s sick. I don’t think he should walk home _

 

Veronica’s typing back immediately. 

 

 **Veronica Lodge:** _of course, B. Which library?_

 

 **Betty Cooper:** _Riverdale_

 

 **Veronica Lodge:** _car is on its way :)_

 

 **Betty Cooper:** _< 3 _

 

 **Veronica Lodge:** _… and no thanking me profusely this time, Betts. Trust me, I wasn’t planning on using it today. ;)_

 

 **Betty Cooper:** _haha okay. I promise. And you’ll have to tell me about your reunion with the famous Archiekins later!_

 

 **Veronica Lodge:** _oh, don’t worry. ;) Now get your angsty man home and in bed!_

 

 **Betty Cooper:** _he’s sick, V! I’m not going to take advantage of him like that_

 

 **Veronica Lodge:** _oh, you know what I mean :P_

 

*** 

 

The black Towncar purrs up to the sidewalk as Betty steps out of the library, a sniffling Jughead in tow. 

 

In the car, he slumps, head lolled back in misery until it snaps forward so he can cough into the collar of his faded Bob Dylan t-shirt. Betty rubs his back until he’s done, and makes sympathetic noises, moving her hand up and down. 

 

“Water,” Jughead croaks finally, gesturing at his backpack. Betty immediately pulls it towards her and digs through it until she finds his beat-up Sigg water bottle. She watches as he twists the top open and takes careful, measured drinks, like he’s reached some sort of tenuous treaty with his irritated lungs and throat.

 

“Did you take any meds?” Betty almost knows better than to ask, but she needs to make sure. 

 

Jughead doesn’t make eye contact. “... No?” it ends like a question, and she wants to hug him and kill him, in that order. 

 

Betty sighs. “ _ Jug _ ”-- she’s cut off when he takes her hand and squeezes and all the air in her sails drops away. Jughead’s a glutton for punishment, and she can’t really fault him for that, from all he’s told her of his strange upbringing and the way he’s been pretty much on his own since he was fifteen. For now, she can be glad that he’s letting her take care of him, because that’s what she’s going to do and she’s going to do the hell out of it. 

 

*** 

 

Veronica’s driver is amenable when Betty scoots up behind his seat to make a quick request, and he swings the car into the parking lot of the next Walgreens. 

 

“Be right back,” Betty promises, pressing a kiss to Jughead’s warm cheek, and giving a brief wave at André, who tips his cap. Back when she first moved in with Veronica, she told André that he could stop wearing the cap around her, she didn’t care, but he looked deeply offended and she hasn’t mentioned it since. 

 

By the time Betty’s back in the backseat of the car, Jughead is dozing lightly, and he starts when the car door shuts behind her. 

 

“Shh,” she soothes as André puts the car in reverse. “We’ll get you in bed soon, and I got supplies.” Betty brandishes the plastic Walgreens bag and Jughead raises an eyebrow. 

 

“Don’t worry,” Betty tells him. “You’re in good hands.” 

 

At that, Jughead’s hand finds hers again and squeezes, and Betty squeezes back. 

 

“You’re welcome,” she says, even though Jughead didn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. 

 

*** 

 

Jughead’s amenable enough to the little shot cup of heavy-duty cold medicine and the tea Betty makes him that it tells Betty a lot more about how awful he must feel than she’d learn from just asking him. Instead, she starts the shower for him so it’s extra steamy and has some old sweats waiting for him, folded on top of the closed toilet seat. 

 

When he emerges from the bathroom, hair damp and curling at the edges like commas, she can’t help but kiss him, pulling him to her until he breaks away breathlessly, coughing a little. 

 

“Don’t wanna get you sick,” he says, and his voice has settled even deeper in his throat. He must still feel awful, but it’s deliciously sexy in a certain way. 

 

“I don’t care about that,” Betty declares. “But I do want to get you feeling better. C’mere, I fluffed all the pillows for you.” She takes his wrist and tugs him to the bed, where indeed, pillows have been fluffed and she’s pulled the comforter back to welcome him in. 

 

“I’m gonna be spoiled rotten,” Jughead says while he climbs in and Betty tucks the blankets around him. 

 

“Hardly,” she scoffs. “Just getting taken care of, for once.” 

 

Jughead coughs and her own chest twinges in sympathy. She hands him the mug of tea and looks at it pointedly until he sips. 

 

“Will you let me take care of you?” Betty touches his knee. 

 

Jughead takes another drink of tea and eyes her cooly. 

 

“All right,” he says finally, as if he’s not already ensconced in her bed and looking like he might not leave it for the next twelve hours. “All right, Betts. Do your worst.” He grins as Betty leans forward to kiss his forehead. 

 

*** 

 

Betty’s worst admittedly encroaches on spoiled territory, but she doesn’t think Jughead could be rotten if he tried. Betty tsks over his temperature, makes him throw back another shot of Nyquil, fusses with his pillows and musses his hair. Jughead snores congestedly in the night and Betty doesn’t even care, nestling herself closer to his heat. 

 

The next morning, Jughead grumps at her when she makes him call in sick to work, but Betty points out that it’s unlikely he’d get much research done when he’s still feeling so ill, and it’s not useful to potentially sicken others. She privately thinks he’s glad to stay here with her in any case- he’s been shivering on and off with fever chills, and his voice sounds scraped raw. Drafty, dusty library stacks are the last place he needs to be right now. 

 

Betty sets herself up on top of the bedspread with her laptop and works on next week’s readings for her summer session psychology course. She enjoys the way Jughead curls into her hip in sleep like a kitten, and catches herself petting his hair more than once. 

 

He sleeps through to early afternoon, barely stirring when Betty extricates herself from his clutches and tiptoes to the kitchen to start some soup. Well, heat up some soup. 

 

Jughead appears in the doorway, hair sticking up, looking more than a little glassy-eyed. 

 

“Betts?” he rasps, and she turns away from the stove, setting her spoon down on the spoon rest. 

 

Betty meets him halfway across the kitchen. Hugging Jughead feels like hugging a giant burning noodle- limp but too hot all over. Betty cups his face in her hands, feeling up and down his neck. He leans into her touch and all she wants to do is make him feel better. 

 

“Here,” she says, gently guiding him to the couch in the living room. “You stay put and I’ll get you some more meds and some soup.” 

 

He looks pathetic just sitting there, pale everywhere but for rosy cheeks, and he surprises her by reaching out and pulling her into an awkward embrace with her standing in front of the couch. 

 

“Feel like shit,” he murmurs into her sternum, and she strokes his hair, enjoying his soft sound of satisfaction at the sensation. 

 

Betty hums an assent back to him, then gently disentangles herself. 

 

“Stay here. I’ll be right back.” 

 

*** 

 

Upon her return, she can’t stifle her laugh at seeing Jughead tucked underneath one of Veronica’s innumerable cashmere throw blankets, this one in pink and cream plaid. 

 

“What?” he says grumpily. “I’m cold.” 

 

Betty had found a wooden breakfast tray in the pantry (of course) and she took a few extra moments to place Jughead’s bowl of soup on it, along with a steaming mug and the bottle of cold medicine. She puts the tray down on the coffee table and then surveys Jughead with a hand on her hip as he tries and fails to stifle a coughing fit. 

 

“Here.” Betty scoots in next to him on the couch and picks up the bottle of cold medicine, measuring it out and then handing the little cup to her boyfriend, who looks at her with a withering, long-suffering gaze. 

 

“Hey,” she says. “I could’ve left you to die in the Riverdale stacks.” 

 

“Ugh.” Jughead makes a face as he swallows, and Betty tsks at him as she feels his forehead again. 

 

Jughead’s quiet as he eats the soup and sips at the tea, meanwhile Betty flips through the various streaming services to see what’s available to watch. 

 

“We used to complain about having a hundred channels and nothing to watch,” she says. “Now we have thousands of movies and tv seasons and still nothing.” 

 

Jughead doesn’t say anything at first, just looking at her in a strangely intense way. 

 

“Hey,” he says finally. “I really appreciate you doing all of this.” He gestures at the empty soup bowl, then clears his throat. It sounds painful, and Betty winces in commiseration. 

 

“I mean”-- Jughead fumbles around for her hand, then takes it and squeezes-- “I never would’ve taken care of myself if you weren’t here. Nobody did this kind of thing for me when I was a kid, so I never really thought I deserved it.” 

 

Suddenly he seems on the verge of tears, and Betty is too, like crying is as contagious as the flu. 

 

“Shh,” she soothes. “It’s okay, Jug. I love taking care of you. It makes me so happy.” 

 

“Yeah?” 

 

“Yeah.” Betty smiles as Jughead raises their linked hands to his mouth and kisses her knuckles. The moment wanes and waxes, and Betty eventually flips through the various television choices until she finds a reality show where a hateful couple buys an ugly house and renovates it through pure passive aggression. 

 

“God, I hate these people,” Jughead says five episodes later, his head in her lap. 

 

“Me too,” says Betty. “Me too.” 

 

***** 

**Author's Note:**

> I finished writing this and woke up with a terrible cold the next day. Karma? 
> 
> I'm on tumblr at superstringtheory.tumblr.com- I'm always open to Bughead headcanon or musings about sickfic!


End file.
